It may surprise you to learn this little detail about me. It is unexpected, I admit, as you see me sitting quietly behind my desk, gazing vaguely at a computer screen.

Never reading, though. You may be sure of that. It might seem odd, for a librarian. No doubt it is. But here is my secret: I loathe books. I have spent thirty years surrounded by the things; if you cut me open, I would bleed inky blood. My skin is pale as paper. My heart itself is a volume, tightly bound.

But books are in fact my shibboleth. Their papery whisperings pursue me down the aisles; commas flicker at the edges of my vision. They terrify me, their black print an abyss into which I fall every time.

Thirty years of this terror, my friend. Can you imagine? You may ask why I do not just leave, but they have me by the throat. My spine is bound to them in a breathing, fleshy version of their own sick structures – layers upon layers of paper which mutter secret things and are wrapped oh-so-lovingly by the stifling embrace of their covers. 

But recently, I stumbled upon a resolution. I had taken a rare book home with me to mend. As I trembled at the kitchen table before the wretched object, the candle which I was using – times have been hard of late, and in the trauma of my work I often forget to pay my bills – the candle flickered, and suddenly toppled over onto the book (an early Pope, I believe).

At first I leapt automatically to put it out, but after this initial reaction I stood still and gazed in awe at the flames. They leapt and danced over the page in a waltzing inferno. The ink wept wicked tears. The bindings cursed and relented. I waited until it had nearly burned through to the table before extinguishing it – upon which moment there came upon me the greatest peace I have ever known. My nemesis lay black and skeletoned before me.

That was two months ago. I remained euphoric all the next day, smiling at students over my spectacles. But the feeling died as the week wore on; I found the aisles closing in on me once more.

And so, my friend, I did what any sensible person would have done – I burnt another. A Freud. I believe he would have respected the situation, the old bore. Once again, the high came, but shorter, this time. I knew I needed more. So I began taking books home daily, signing them out under various students’ names, assigning them to oblivion in nightly waltzes of fire. It was good – better – but I still craved.

And so here I stand. It is one in the morning. I hold a now-empty carton of petrol and a lighter for the ultimate dance. They say literature creates an insatiable appetite – they just never stated for what. As I hurl the lighter and watch the library blossom into flame, I laugh triumphantly at the final destruction of my demons. I think Freud would have appreciated that. 

Read Freya's first creative piece on classroom romances here.